8 February 2004
Tales of the unexpected
A very busy Saturday, with two stories to recount.
Last month we were introduced to FergNet, our most recent facsimile of a health-insurance plan, and in said introduction I reckoned that the name-brand drugs prescribed for me would be a couple of bucks cheaper.
This notion, of course, violates the First Rule of Health Care: "If you can afford it, the price is too low." And indeed, when I presented a prescription, the pharmacist looked at his terminal screen, raised an eyebrow, looked at the screen again, and pronounced solemnly: "Since this calls for a sixty-day supply, they expect you to pay two copayments, one for each thirty-day quantity."
Sneaky little devils. So instead of $2 ahead, I come out $28 poorer. Six iterations of this, and well, it won't matter, because someone else will be taking over the company plan by then and will have a different bag of tricks altogether.
Later on, I had wandered into Borders for something or other, and was greeted by a chorus of Camp Fire Girls vending their usual array of chocolate-covered carbs. I gave them my standard putoff "Let's see if I have any money left after I go through the store" and continued into the heart of the stacks, emerging with a couple of periodicals and a hardback or two. I did, in fact, have enough for a box of goodies, and the Official Adult Supervision, while fumbling for my change, gave me the "Don't I know you from somewhere?" look.
Which he did. Back in the 80s, he had run one of the larger Apple-based BBS systems around town, named for a Robert Asprin series, and I was one of the users thereupon. Of course, back then, I was still in fictional-female mode, so I was duly introduced under the pseudonym, which I acknowledged, noting that "That was years ago."
But by then three pairs of nine-year-old eyes had grown to saucer size. "You used to be a girl?"
I explained the story as best I could, and they seemed content with the explanation. Passersby, who heard only bits and pieces of the tale, tended to look at me funny.
Oh, well. My Warhol-approved 15 minutes stretches another couple of nanoseconds.
(And I'm going back to the "CFI Care" term for our health-care provider, because it's funnier.)